The Depression Diaries
by Draenog Glas
Summary: Ficlets written at the time of fibromyalgic depression. May update periodically. Trigger warnings for various depression issues such as suicide, self-harm, etc.
1. Fairytale

**A/N: Oneshots I wrote while under the guise of depression. Also includes possibly depressed Sonic poetry as well.**

**I know people wouldn't like to hear such negativity and I guess they can choose to not really read the fic as I won't update it very often anyways, but I need to try to write even corny small Sonic fanfiction when I get in the throes of depression. I might as well rate this M because I know I'll write about graphic stuff here eventually.**

_"I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people's eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth."_

_-Sylvia Plath_

The forest glowed, with the sliver of Sonic's tears.

Amy had lived in this forest for many years, running away with her love, and the trees had the scent of the afternoon rain, the mist that collected on the glass leaves, the glass petals, and the many bleeding hearts that gathered around Sonic, their roots dancing to the fall of the sun. His face was darkened by the clouds, the blankets of the stars that protected the sun from further exposure, further emotions.

His heart couldn't stay still in his chest. It ran as fast as he did.

The Goddess of the Crystal Forest asked him to give up his heart, in order to be with his love. The woman's chest contained a million beating hearts, and she loved all of them, and she never wanted to give any of them up. She wanted Sonic's the most, she hungered for his, but he still kept it, and still kept running after Amy.

The afternoon sun acquiesced into night, not long was he soon dipped into the black ocean, the stars the little lanterns that kept him safe as he traversed through the forest.

_Before night falls, you will be in this forest forever…your heart will belong to me, and how delicious it is…_

The smell of rain collected on his nostrils. And it began to rain. The small eaves of the tears of the sky collected on his quills, along with his sweat and heartache.

"I love you," he whispered. He could hear the folds of her dress collecting the autumn leaves. The mist was growing, the night grew colder, the tears in his eyes enveloped him, his hands became absorbed into her breasts, and the love, the love he had for her, he knew it all this time, yet never told her.

"You should've told me sooner, Sonic." Her voice was arctic, frozen.

The night's stars swarmed in the pool, and Sonic's heart had run from him, a distant gold lantern in the night, to serve a new dish to the Forest Queen, the goddess who controlled the autumn, and Sonic's quills had become orange, iridescent red, a golden yellow, and he reached out his hand towards the princess he so loved, his fur becoming more in tune with nature, the fog's moisture collecting on his quills.

"I love you," he said. "I always had loved you, and if you didn't believe me then, you should now…"

The spirit of autumn had been absorbed into her heart, and his heart was dew to hers, the golden tears that escaped from the eaves, the breast of her love, and into the puddle where she could never remember the others who once loved her. She produced no tears, no emotion, but she knew inside, she did love him, and the only reason why she never said anything and never showed him her love was because it would break her. She would soon be another carapace to the Queen, and she didn't want to end up like her husband. A centerpiece like a Jew's skin to a Nazi.


	2. Abandoned

_Where is he now?_

He asked, sotto voce.

_Will he come back for us?_

_He left for college. He might not come back for a long time._

He looked sick, with his stitches misaligned, his fluff bleeding out of him. Shadow restitched him. So fragile.

_He might not come back, Sonic…_

It felt cold. The room where he left them, winter was beginning to lose its fluff, the cotton that reminded them of their inevitable age and loneliness.

_He'll come back I'm sure._

_He won't, Sonic. And it's okay._

Tears seeped from his eyes. He loved him. He loved him dearly. And now he was gone. He had rips in his seams and his sateen ears were worn out because of him. He cried on his head, he cried on Shadow's, and he promised to never forget them. But he did.

Shadow told him it was okay to cry. The boy wouldn't come back, and neither was the mother going to remember them. They moved away, to another state, one they couldn't walk their velveteen legs to.

_I mothered him when he was a baby. I took care of him when he was a child._

_We both did._

_And now he's gone. I can't believe it. We just have each other. We just have no one else._

Shadow lingered in the shadows, watching the cats prowl around the house. They won't bother them. They weren't like dogs that would kill an innocent stuffed animal cause they needed something to sink their teeth in. He caught a glimpse of a cat's green eye, its eyes widening in horror at the moving plush toys, and then it scurried away, to eat the can of tuna given by the hoarder who lived in the home cause she couldn't afford a real one.

_Are we going to be forgotten like her, Shadow?_

He meant the woman wearing sacks and robes around her. She was wrinkled like a rotten fruit, her hands shook when she fed the cats and kittens, and she couldn't smell the shit and piss that piled around the walls and crevices. She claimed she loved them, when in truth, she was harming them with their ammonia, and hurting the memories of the home that Sonic and Shadow once had.

Shadow held Sonic's hand.

_These things will pass. I promise. This cat-lady will soon move on to another abandoned house. The cats will soon move on. And maybe the child will find us. He must find us here. We loved him, and we want him to love us back._

_I love you back._

More gray-pink tuna was dished out for the monsters with fangs and crescent eyes. Sonic held onto his hand tighter, as the hoarder brought in more of her finds, her books, her broken useless electronics, her fishing poles she claimed she would fish for the cats down by the river that smelled of garbage and piss.

More things gathered around them throughout the years. They still held onto each other, as the hoarder made the remnants of the house forgotten, shrouded by filth, but the two hedgehogs never forgot each other, as they kissed when the boxes covered them, and the cats climbed the tower, the hoarder continuing to feed the wretched beasts Fancy Feast and tuna.

She cared more for her beasts than the boy cared for his caretakers. Why he forgot them, his mother said it was childish to hold onto his infant playthings. And he listened.


	3. BlazeCitR1

A/N: A small snippet of a project I plan to do one day, involving Blaze the Cat with a nihilist Holden Caulfield-type personality in a nowhere town in Indiana. This has some trigger warnings for self-harm, suicide, and eating disorders, though I guess clicking on this work you would kind of expect that kind of thing from these series of fics anyways.

Look at these loquacious assholes. Look at them. Learning to eat right. Learn to not shovel that shit inside your mouth like you were a starving African child. But you're white. You're white and pale and you're sickly and you were diagnosed with diabetes and you're inside this shitty class where they made a mistake getting my blood drawn and didn't even asked if I ate this fucking morning.

I did. I had to take my medicine. My antidepressants have to be taken with food. Do they expect me to walk in there wanting to kill my own goddamned self when they're trying to take care of me and make sure I don't die in an ice cream coma? Doctors are careless to mental issues. It's all about the physical issues I don't have.

Hear the nurse blabbering on. Yatta yatta yatta. Telling me to eat fruits and veggies that are too goddamned expensive. After the whole ordeal is over I get a Big Mac from McDonald's. I needed to tell myself that it couldn't happen. Deny it. The bones in my skin are too protruding. They tell me to eat more. I do. Then I throw it up. I lick ice cream and lick it till it's completely gone then I go to my porcelain god and out it comes in a turd-colored waterfall. I always make the water run when I throw up. Mom always thinks I'm washing my hands or taking a bath or some shit.

I smoke a cigarette while I take the bus ride home. Cigarettes are bad they say, but lung cancer wasn't scary to me. The truth is, I always wanted to die. I dreamed of it as a child. Going to a large puddle and being immersed completely in the pond where these fish will eat you alive and I'm gone in several minutes.

My mother is home. We fight, as always.

She tells me to shut up when I tell her I don't like her yelling at me.

Her screaming traumatized me eons ago. It's never nice to hear it. It's a banshee being strangled. She tells me she wants to hit me instead of me having those long red snakes down my wrist. I smoke another cigarette. Close my lids. Expect her to hit me. But she never does. She loves me too much. And that's the truth.

I listen to music on the computer, read some Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, the people who killed themselves years ago and everyone thought of them as martyrs. My suicide is meaningless to this world, I'll be honest. I could finally cut my wrists right now and it wouldn't matter. Would my mom mourn me? Probably not. Only a small hearse would go to my funeral. My dad wouldn't be there. He never cared about me since I was a baby.

Cigarette ashes fall like snow. I read Plath again, expecting to be solidified and shocked by her dreary wisdom, but it never happens. I just think how lucky she was to die. When her poetry gained recognition. A Van Gogh that never had popular work until years after he died. Marvelous.

I write poetry. But it's never good. Just the kind of shit any Goth teenager pukes out in their creative writing class, using such words like "crimson" and "moody" and refer to roses and possibly My Chemical Romance. Garbage. I was only 14, after all. None of my poetry mattered.

Purple cat, purple cat

Jump high enough for me

Your shoes are destroyed by dirt

By Hell's fire and blood

You never had wings

They were a lie from your grandmother

Schizophrenic, spasmodic

She saw angels clearly in her grainy old eyes

You saw demons

They poked you, they stabbed at your wrists

Your arms, your neck, your head

Doctors deny your research of fibromyalgia

They call you a phony

Cigarettes are your only friend

Standing alone in this starless, peerless

Insurmountable blood-lit sky

The stars were pecked by chickens during

These criticisms, sharp fingers

Bladed calluses on knuckles

I feed on the sky

I drink the blood in the cup of the moon

They are my satiation

Until the misery fills me up with the Big Dipper

Once again

Total trash. I throw it away.

I'm never proud of anything that leaves my desk. Not including the multitude of poems that I write and soon get dissatisfied with.

I climb into bed unwillingly. A slug, full of its own waste. That was what I was. Sick, undiscovered, I hoped to be a new star in everyone's solar system. Seen from everywhere. Shining corruscately in that night sky.

Tired all the time.

Bones weary, grinding to dust.

The tears come out.

My bed full of monstrous alphabet critters, splattered with some blood.

These bedsheets are as worn and as old and as tired as me.

Why doesn't my mother get some new ones and throw the other ones in a fire?

I was infantile to her, that was why.

I was still her baby.


	4. BlazeCitR2

Waiting room. Doctors come back and tell me I may have type 2 Diabetes. My blood levels are so high they couldn't identify it. I told them they probably fucked up the machine because I actually ate before I took my antidepressants this morning. The pills shook in my pocket. I didn't take them, but I ate.

I told them they were fucking liars. I never wanted to go to these doctors again. Then I threw a chair at them and cried. Then my mom assigned me a therapist despite my attempts telling her I didn't need one. Great. Grand. Wonderful. Marvelous.

She asks me of any childhood traumas. None I can think of. She asks me if I was sexually abused. Nada. She asks me if anything upset me right now I can talk to her about. I grip a cigarette despite the hospital being a No Smoking area and lit a fat one. I told her I know I'm expected to pay her two hundred dollars for flat fucking nothing, only telling me the obvious that I was depressed and a nihilist and an atheist. She asked me if I believed in God. I already told you I was atheist you fat fuck. Then she gave me a book that talked about how Christianity can help with depression. I threw it away the first chance I got.

So much for getting professional help.

This hospital admitted me for anorexia a few years back. A suicide attempt off swallowing a few aspirin. You know, the shit preteens do to get attention from their moms and dads and tells them how fucked up they are even if it was over some girl/boyfriend they're going to dump in a few weeks or was a total bitch/dick anyways. They have outpatient services, but I only see a psychiatrist. Smile and nod. Get another prescription of pills I don't need.

I took the Zoloft before. I felt like a fucking zombie that just rose from my grave. Cause I was dead already. I felt like my organs rot inside me, graying up, leaking into my fragile purple fur and pale skin. I close my eyes, wish it all away, with the cigarette dangling from my fingertips, look at the neon glow-in-the-dark stars that stuck to the ceiling when I was like six years old. These are my stars. These are my constellations. My moon. My Big Dipper. My Ursula Major. I never looked at the real sky. Everything else felt artificial and fake inside my world.

When I was a child I talked to a counselor who was determined to cheer me up. I was the only one who ever saw her. She tried to make the kids and learn things with her puppets. I showed her a picture of what it was like in my world, how sad I felt, how no one wanted to be friends with me, willy willy boo boo Blaze never had friends and family that loved her. Showed it to my mom after school and she screamed at me that I never talked to that counselor again and no one cared about my world or anything on it. Just the shadows cared. They cared, because they mattered.

Dash John Green, Will Grayson, Will Grayson. Book was too positive for me to honestly give a shit.

My room's wallpaper peeled away. The blood in the bedsheets full of little infantile critters turned to a rusty brown. I was dying. My world was dying. No one loved Blaze, willy willy boo boo.

Time to eat worms, I said, as they dug into my grave.

My mom always sung a song every time I was upset. About eating worms. Making everything seem so goddamn insignificant. Thanks mom. Thanks. You fucking pale, skinny-ass bitch.

I closed my eyes and hoped to die. I had said a curse and wished illness on my mother.

She was diabetic too.

Fucking kill me, I said to God. I prayed to God that I would die every night. He laughed in my face and I woke up the next morning, feeling like shit.

Breakfast would be served, just glazed corn cereal, and it tasted like sweet battered worms.

My cigarette kept going on the ashtray on the oak table near my bed. It kept going. Going. Going, filling the room with smoke. And when I thought it would never go out and burn on that end forever while a drunken man smoked it, it would be smashed, grounded, its life brought to a screeching halt.

God I hope the same happens to me.


	5. After Wonderland

I'm trying to sleep. I look at the clock. Everything is decaying around me. I see flowers wilted. Flies smelling their deceased corpses. Another lithium pill I have to take. It tastes like salt. I worry about being manic despite the medicine working well. Life came clearer to me with the little white pills, the little saccharine death traps.

I'm trying to sleep.

I look at the clock. It is 11 pm.

My gloved hands itch. I feel it's the symptom of the lithium or something else. Bipolar made me crazy, and I often thought of walking away from the bed and just thinking about things. About the things that matter.

Sickness and in health.

I was manic for several years. I was admitted to some hospital that was hellish and godawful. I made it out alive and I only hold scarred memories. Doctor Splinter. That piece of shit. At the end of the whole ordeal, he was a demon. He threatened to cremate me and make me imagine this shitty world outside of the hospital. But I refused. No. No. I refused.

Depression bites me harder in the ass than it should. I drink a mug of hot cocoa to get me to sleep. I'm trying to sleep. It is 12 am.

I text Knuckles, I text Tails. I try to make them have sympathy for my sleepless nights. They're not there. They're asleep. They're phantasms of the night. Ghosts. They disappeared right when it was 12 am.

I wonder if lithium has ever…stopped working.

Pop! Goes another pill. My antidepressants.

I wonder if they will make me as crazy as I was back there again.

God help me, I'm sick and in despair over the future, and it's coming to get me when the sun rises up tomorrow and I have to work with my father again.

I want to lie in the covers and never get up. I don't want to ever see the sun. I want to sleep forever. I want to go to my own little Wonderland. Alice sure had a fun time with that bitch of a queen. I had a fun time with the King of Spades.

This hoodie doesn't protect people from my appearance enough. Lie on the couch, have my eyes buzz around the TV like some kind of coprophagous fly, and then fall asleep, meanwhile my father is yelling at me to work on some farm miles away from here.

I am hesitant of the future. I see the dawn break open and I see nothing but a bleeding woman dying.

Pop! I take a sleeping pill. It's supposed to help with my sleep. I'm trying to sleep. It is now 12:30 am. I wonder how the hell I stayed up this late.

I'm writing my story to be published and then hopefully I'll be on Oprah's Book Club where everyone will finally goddamn love me like they're supposed to.

I'm lying on the bed. As soon as I get up, it will be 6 am, and I will have to go to the farms to work.

Mania festers in my head like flies. Eating, vomiting, spreading the vomit on their legs, vomiting again, eating, buzzing away, eating shit, vomiting on the shit, buzzing away, touching me with their shitty hands, making me bleed on my wrists and making me black, see those corruscate eyes again the bastard that took my teeth away and took my heart vomiting on it eating it rubbing the vomit on his arms eating it vomiting on it.

It's 6 am, and when my father comes home and tells me it was time to do yard work, do some sermons, and all that other shit, I already feel dead.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

No. I didn't get one fucking hour of sleep.

Not one damn bit.


	6. Polly (Fragile Angels Oneshot)

I think the bird needed water. I think it needed more birdseed. I think the wings needed clipped. And then taken out, but he wants to hide away and shrink into the bars of the cage…Then its nails needed to be trimmed. Then I needed to pray that he'll be alright. Polly was sick. Polly needed everything to feel better.

I turn on the heating lamp near his cage. He never got any real sunlight, organic sunlight grown by farmers out there in the galaxy. My room was dark and opaque and there was dust and debris all over Polly's little nostrils. I wondered why he was sick. Then it came to me. Cause I was a sloppy ass pig. That was why.

A bird that looked like me, except he was blue. I was a hawk. The bird always sung along to some of my rock music. He always seemed to put a smile on my face with his beady little eyes, his playful nips on my fingers, the rustling of jaded wings. The bird sung every morning, greeted me with its white puffy cheeks, and went on chirping to the other birds who never wanted to visit it in its little cage, in the bars that slowly, he became smaller, slinking away further into the grime and filth of my laziness.

Take him to the vet? I couldn't. There was no time left for Polly. He was sure to die in a few weeks. I made everything happy for him. Millet for him. Toys. I even talked and conversed with him on the days I thought he would die. Polly was jubilant, despite his chronic condition. His wings always fluttered like insects, his beak croaked like a frog, and he gazed at me with trust, that I would take care of him, that I was his caretaker, and Polly would have a safe trip to the afterlife.

Well, it happened. I woke up one early morning, asked where my little buddy Polly was at, and he lied motionless on the shitstreaked ground, dead, shutting his innocent eyes forever. I refused to acknowledge that he finally died after all these years. He could still tweet to me a tune from Rammstein, scratch his beak on the pole and giving me a greeting, the little Polly had finally stopped flying after so long. His wings were folded. They were no longer the colors of tourmalines.

I loved him. Didn't I tell you that, diary? I loved him, yet I could see him becoming faint in my vision every day I came to the house, grovelling under the newspapers and attempting to eat whatever I gave him. And what did I do about his suffering? I said nothing. I said nothing at all to the bird. I said he was lucky. He was lucky that he was in a cage he loved and I wasn't.

Cardboard boxes, empty wine bottles, glass little beads of glittering trash in the sea of my destruction. God, would I have just loved to pick the place up. That was if I wasn't so merciless on myself. I wanted to destroy my life, and whatever remnants I had. I drank too much, too often. I was always thirsty for alcohol and wine. I prayed to God to bring the little bird back, the bird that lied rolled up in a plastic bag, before my brain-tumored mother would return to her bed for her evening and morning and afternoon rest, while the father was gone on some long excursion that he never told my siblings when he'll return, and Wave comes by and criticizes me, saying that I never was going to college, that I was throwing my life away, and I wasn't taking good care of our mother. It was the bird. Polly. Polly was all I cared about. Polly, Polly, Polly.

My brother, Storm, never cared about my life. He was always obsessed with his machines and inventions. He never even asked my mother on how that tumor was coming along. But of course, Wave never said anything to him. Because she was his mother, taking care to make sure he brushed his teeth, took a shower, and wore socks with shoes. If it wasn't for her, Storm would go days without bathing, even wearing anything, and I heard of some condition called autism, though I thought we could've never caught it from our family. Our father was very intelligent, but he never had an ounce of autism in him. And our mother was just any other ordinary housewife who was becoming delirious every single goddamn day, and I couldn't stand watching her die anymore.

Just like Polly. During his final days, I didn't converse with him. I didn't acknowledge he was there. Because he was dying. I couldn't stand the sight of death.

My father had already died, and that was enough for me.

Jesus died, and that was enough.

God died, and that was the straw that broke my spine.

I left.

I left and never wanted to come back.

I didn't know my brother and sister wanted to bring me back to Kansas. I didn't know they wanted me to live in that abandoned home with them and become Buddhist monks.

I sat in my shit-filled cage and I watched as my brother and sister struggled to bring me back from the throes of wine and power.

I became smaller every day.

Like mother.

Like Polly.

I threw Polly in the garbage after he died.

Because that was the same thing we did to our mother.

Buried her and hoped the police wouldn't be able to track her scent, in an unmarked grave that I soon pissed on.

Death was a concept I still couldn't stand.

But when I looked at the sun in the sky that was about to be eaten by the earth's bosoms, I realized that the sun died every day. The moon died every day. And God went through many forms every day, and was killed every day. Maybe in the form of an insect. Maybe in the form of a man I killed. Maybe in the form of a blue hedgehog I had grown to detest when I heard of him rebirthing the world.

Everything died. Everything had a reason to die.

Polly died because I couldn't save him.

Mother died because I couldn't save her.

I died because I couldn't save myself.

I told Mephiles to kill me. I had enough of the wish to be a god. I just wanted to be one not cause of power, but I had the wish that I could never die. Because death was a terrible, heinous thing I never wanted to experience. But as I delved more into wine, into bloodlust, into the desire to murder the hedgehogs that were trying to bring peace back into this miserable earth, I said, 'Mephiles, just kill me right now. The whole goddamn world hates me and I'd rather just die than to be hated for all eternity. You can take my life after you can grant me one wish. Use my body for whatever you wish.'

He granted it.

Polly only lived for five hours, before the world burned away like a flickering match.

Polly needed water. Needed his nails trimmed. Those seagreen wings clipped. What he needed most was me.

I wasn't there to help him.

God wasn't there for me either.

Even God wasn't there for Polly when he was rebirthed.

He was too busy clacking away at his tragic story, with a glass of red wine and a magical pill on his side that made him even more wretched and sad and beautiful and broken, and he wrote his final sentence the same day that Polly died. His story was finished. And you know what the fucker, this merciful being God is? Did you know what he did?

He pulled a Hemingway and shot himself.

His blood spilled and it created more glass stars, more ornamental planets, more creatures that were melted and coruscated with his burning flames of his mind.

What a goddamn hipster.


	7. Contrary Mother Mary

**A/N: This probably would be more suited for the Memorial, but these were chapters and short stories I made for the Depression Diaries that I never seemed to complete because my mind was completely drawn to a blank on what else could happen.**

**This one, Mother Mary, was based on a dream I had but found out I couldn't do much more with the idea other than make a short 300-word story.**

Her name was Mother Mary, and she believed that Christ was in him.

His name was Sonic, and he believed that God was in her.

She vowed her marriage to the Lord, but when she took him underneath her raven-soot black wings, she denied the marriage to sacrilege.

When that black dawn woke up those folks at the small Mississippi town, they claimed something had changed, and they thought it was their tongues when they tasted their coffee and milk and bread this morning. Or they thought it was their eyes, seeing nothing but a dirty gray and white. They claimed even when the snow fell in their town it wasn't immaculate, but dirty, impure, like a virgin raped.

Mary was a virgin, until she claimed that this childish hedgehog named Sonic was Christ. We questioned if she was drugged. We questioned if all this religion went straight to her brain, and made her talk nonsense. Gobbledygook. She said that no, she really did see Jesus Christ in him, and why did she commit a disgusting act on us all? We didn't know. She was sick, maybe with head worms. It made her suddenly do non-Christian things, like drink whiskey when the moon was full and pale on her face, like a switchblade in the cold night. She didn't say anything more about the case. Sonic wasn't much better, and in fact, denied that he saw God in her face. In fact, he saw Him everywhere, telling him to obey His laws and, somehow, to worship him like a Pagan. Like a Wiccan. He spread chicken blood on her toes. He cut the first born son of hers she had inside her for 9 months and while her mind was in hysterics, she let him do it, even without surgical knowledge. The baby was still-born, and it died under that night where the leaves were blue and looked like serrated blades. The baby died under the knife. And Mother Mary was sent away to some sanatorium where shell-shocked women lived. She was sick. They knew that. They durn well knew that. But of what, we weren't sure. Head worms? Maybe.


	8. Human Eyeballs on Toast

I wasn't the same as always. I wasn't the miserable sack of shit I was before this curse had changed me. I was sickened, had feathers, and had to eat dead meat. The carcasses of the world had constantly been shed to feed me. My family stuck me in a cage and fed me carrion while I brooded over how my life had changed. Nothing had changed except this moment. I was a raven, and I fed on other people's wastes, and I was a symbol of depression and misery. And I was related to a bunch of hedgehogs who were happy, who realized they had the world before them, not against them. I often wrote poetry on wretched this world was, how I got sick of seeing the gray and black embedded in my eyes, my eyes that seemed like blue marbles, iridescent, childish. My wings grew too big in a cage too small, yet I had a brain that rivaled the humans. I could use small things I find on the ground as tools, or weapons. I made a sword out of a scrap of steel they gave me. Now I was only a scientific experiment, one that didn't know so much about voodoo curses and angry witches who believed my mind could be changed positively with only a smile and a grin and some thinking that I was a decent person. No one thought decently of me. Not even my parents. Not even my friends. I kept close to them before I was a raven because I was lonely and desperate for companionship. When I soon became a bird that could only croak "Nevermore", they left me and came again, nevermore.

A word I say often, as I try to take my antidepressants. They never go down with my beak. I ended up cracking them like nuts. Must be swallowed whole; do not chew or crush. Tell that to an animal who had no anthropomorphic fingers.

I saw the sunrise often. How depressing it seemed, that I was in a shit-covered cage, never really did anything than croak and ate and shit and slept in my shit and woke up in my shit and no one ever came to clean it. My family often forgot about me. Here they are with their roasts and my brethren being cooked for Thanksgiving, but do I ever get a piece of turkey? Never. So dead-pan I sound, but you would be surprised that they never take notice of me other than to make sure my water is somewhat clean, the carrion rotting with flies and maggots. Never a hello. My form was grotesque for everyone to see. A monster that no one wanted to be associated with.

I ate dead animals, they did too. What was the difference? Except mine were holed with maggots and flies?

They could fly with their little fancy airplanes they could afford to take a trip on without me, what was the difference between me and my wings? I was never allowed to fly and they never thought about me living with ravens like me, flying with ravens like me, fighting with ravens like me, even having sex with ravens like me. It all seemed preposterous that I was treated like an outcast, all cause I had a dark mind, one that never responded in an ascertain or positive, uplifting way. Fuck them, I said to myself, they never saw what the world truly was in my eyes. Everything black and white, my vision seeing the ugly things so clearly and so vivacious, I told them the truth of what I experienced, and they never had any of it. My wings were clipped, to pinion me in this cage. I had a label on my leg. What for? For nothing. It was all for nothing. They just wanted me to be the test subject, the star of television morning-talk shows that were often vapid and I felt myself fading away slowly, as I sat in the stars and tinkered and shit, my beak too long to even bite and swallow my food with. The bastards.

I wasn't sure how I could be related to them. They often said I was sick, I needed to take my medication, but the depression was the only thing that felt real anymore. The curse made me question reality, and I often believed that the dreadful viewpoint I had was The Truth while everyone else were simply blind to it; depressed people can see much more than most normal, or should I say neurotypicals with their brains full of serotonin and dopamine? We saw everything that had to be seen. The sadness I felt was tangible. It couldn't be solved by taking a pill everyday for a month. What I saw, was if the world stopped shitty, the world stopped dying slowly, then I would be happy. I would think, anyways.

You want me to end this whole thing with saying "Nevermore" or something? It's a cliche, and the fact you even thought I would end this whole trite passage about how shitty my life had become doesn't make things better. You're a Happy Happyist, and I can see that you want the world sugarcoated in yellow and green, like so many mental hospitals I used to go to, but you know what? Fuck you, forevermore. Do you like that ending better instead? This is what I get medicated with, but my birdy beak can't take capsules. Birdy can't be happy. Birdy can't say hello to mommy or daddy. Or little brother. Stuck in cage all-day, just loving it. Squawk! Mind becomes more bird-like slowly evermore. Feed me little crackers and bananas, what a treat. Polly want a cracker? Shove it up your ass. Nevermore. Nevermore. Madness is overcoming me, the wings feel like silly putty. Family coming, taking my beak, hatching little mes for their breakfast, I try to make myself feel better by imagining their eyeballs on toast. Yummy human eyeballs. Yummy for the bluey-ooey goodness on my wheat bread. Dip the bread in black pupils, come out with blood. Delicious!


End file.
